If I Was a Girl
by ManicVergingonPsychotic
Summary: AU in which all the characters are the opposite sex. Rewrite of the storylines in the TV show if they were the opposite sex,  possibly  some original stories later on.
1. The Hum of London

Jean Watson had returned from the war a broken woman.

She often was plagued by nightmares in the night that reduced her to a quivering, sobbing wreck. This night was no exception. She didn't just have these horrible flashbacks of the war, she was chased by her life _now._ She was alone. She had nobody. Everyday was monotonous. If she died now, there'd be two people at her funeral. Her brother Harry and his boyfriend Clarence. She'd explained that to her therapist, he was a nice man, but therapy wasn't for her. She was fine. She'd manage. Her leg hurt, it wasn't because of memories that she was limping, it was because of pain.

Nothing happened to her. Well, that was what she thought. She was walking home. (Home was a funny word, she didn't consider where she lived her _home_ she considered it a _place _it was like purgatory, between two extremes, the hell of Afghanistan and the happiness she was pining for) When she heard her name shouted after her.

"Jean! Jean Watson!" She froze, and turned slowly, she was surprised and happy to see it was one of her older friends from the army Michelle Stamford. They bought coffee and sipped it together. They watched the life of London hum by.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at, what happened?" Michelle asked.

"I got shot." Jean replied. She realised it was a little curt, but she hated people being so stupid about it. It wasn't something she wanted to discuss. She hated that part of her life and wanted to close it. She tried to patch the situation up, "Are you still at Bart's then?"

"Teaching now, yeah." Michelle laughed "Bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them." She and Jean laughed together, remembering the days they used to race around. "What about you, just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?" 

Jean thought that Michelle was joking. "I can't afford London on an army pension." She replied, it was true, and a shame really. She liked London, the amount of people made her feel like she couldn't be the only messed up one.

**"**Ah, you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the Jean Watson I know." 

"Yeah I'm not that Jean Watson." Jean mused. She wasn't. So much had happened to her. She was a totally different person. She didn't like looking in the mirror and not recognising the person there. She had permanent bags under her eyes and her straight, once shiny, hair was starting to fade grey. 

**"**Couldn't Harry help?" Michelle snapped Jean out of her reverie. 

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen." She scoffed. Her brother was too concerned about his own life. They didn't get on, never had.

**"**I don't know. You could get a flat share or something." Michelle smiled. This idea was even more ridiculous than the last idea. 

"C'mon. Who'd want me for a flatmate." She replied. It was true, who'd want a thirty-something-year-old suffering from possible PTSD who didn't sleep. Jean noticed Michelle was pulling a face at her. Her eyes were crinkled in the corners and she had a broad smile. "What?" 

**"**Well you're the second person to say that to me today." She laughed a sort of what-are-the-odds? laugh.

"Who's the first?" Jean said intrigued. She could surely live with someone as worse as her. They could share something. Share being outcasts. Detached. She liked the idea of her. It confirmed her ideas about London, _so many people…there must be one as messed up as me_.


	2. Favourite Microscope

Sherlock was bored. Mind you, that was how she spent sixty percent of her time. The world was so ordinary, there were only a couple of shooting stars which lit up the monotony. For Sherlock, those shooting stars were cases. Murders. Serial, preferably.

Today was another one. Scotland Yard had been baffled (as per usual) and had knocked on her door. It'd taken less than an hour to finish all these cases and now she was waiting at St. Bartholomew's for something interesting. Manny had let her whip a corpse from the morgue earlier so she could observe bruising patterns after death. Manny Hooper, he was a weird one. Always hovering around Sherlock although she'd made it perfectly clear he didn't have to.

"You're wearing gel in you hair." she noticed.

"I, uh refreshed it a bit." Manny blushed

"Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

"Black two sugars please. I'll be upstairs." Manny was always offering to make her cups of coffee, was that one of those weird 'social convention' things Myra had told her about? Foisting copious amounts of coffee upon people?

Sherlock was experimenting near his favourite microscope when Michelle walked in with a short blonde woman with a limp. Wow, Sherlock thought, she'd never been one to notice these things but the woman was…cute. She mentally shook herself, noticing the more important things. Ex-army doctor. Somewhere exotic. Cute. Stop it, Sherlock, stop noticing that. Yes, she is attractive, if you're into that kind of thing.

"Michelle, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock asked Michelle without looking up from her experiment.

"What's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

The (cute) young blond woman offered her her phone. Sherlock took it gratefully.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" She asked the (cute) woman. She was still staring at the phone, engaged in texting. _If the brother has green ladder arrest brother – SH_

The blonde woman was clearly taken aback "Sorry?" she asked, looking up at Sherlock with a mixture of puzzle, fear and curiosity.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated the question more slowly for her. God, keep up.

"Afghanistan. Sorry how did you-" she turned to look at Michelle, who smiled and shrugged, as Manny came in holding a cup of coffee for Sherlock.

"Ah, Manny! Coffee. What happened to the hair gel?"

"It wasn't working for me." Manny mumbled to his shoes.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your hair's too small now."

Manny scuttled out of the room mumbling to himself. Sherlock turned to the blonde woman.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Michelle looked at the blonde woman, a smile spreading across her face.

"I'm sorry, what?" the woman asked, shifting her weight.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for _days _on end…would that bother you?" She looked at the woman "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." She smiled, encouragingly.

"Are you…you…" the woman turned slightly to Michelle "…you told her about me?"

"Not a word." Michelle answered sincerely.

"Then who said anything about flatmate?" the woman was clearly out of her depth, and extremely confused.

"I did." Sherlock answered turning to put her coat on "Told Michelle this morning that I must be a difficult woman to find a flatmate for. Now here she is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly home from military service in Afghanistan." She donned her favourite navy scarf. "No difficult leap."

The woman still looked pretty shaken. "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." She smiled at her.

"Is that it?" the blonde woman said, aghast.

"Is that what?" Sherlock was confused, had she done something wrong?

"We've only just met, and we're going to go and look at a flat?"

Oh, yes, one of those annoying 'social convention' things.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

The blonde woman laughed at the craziness of the situation and looked at Michelle. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." She listed.

Why did people need so many details? Thought Sherlock. Why couldn't they just try and figure it out? _Use_ those brains. Sherlock decided to show off, proving she could use hers.

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his husband. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock said, proudly, all in one breath. She out to the door, then popped back in.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one-bee Baker Street." She winked "Afternoon!"


	3. Investigating 221B

That Sherlock woman had left Jean absolutely flabbergasted. She'd dissected his life story, told her nothing about herself and expected her just to accept it and come and look at a flat with him. Michelle had informed her that she was 'always like that'. Jean was shocked. She'd have to find that woman and tell her they wouldn't be moving in together.

Part of her mind rebelled, it was so excited for something to actually be _happening_ to her. This Sherlock person, she looked crazy, excitable, sporadic, she played the violin and went mute for days on end. But at least it wouldn't be boring with her.

These were the thoughts that went through Jean's head as he hobbled up to 221B Baker Street. As she knocked on the black door, she heard a taxi pull up behind her and the graceful (graceful? Since when did she realised women were graceful) Sherlock Holmes stepped out.

"Hello." she said, stepping round the car to pay the cabbie.

"Ah! Miss Holmes." Jean shook hands with her, they were surprisingly soft.

"Sherlock, please."

"Sherlock?" Jean asked

"Yes…Sherlock." Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth. She looked like she was trying to calculate if she'd made a mistake.

"It's a unusual name."

"So I'm led to believe. It means 'bright hair' and I think it was my Grandfather's name. Shall we go in?" She gestured to the door, smiling expectantly.

"Yeah, sure." Jean smiled.

"I know Mr Hudson, the landlord, he gave me a special deal. Owes me a favour." Sherlock inhaled sharply. "Few years back, his wife, married him for his money, tried to murder him. I was able to help out."

Jean's about to ask a question, mainly about what 'helping out' means, when the door opens to reveal and elderly man who promptly wraps his arms around Sherlock.

"Mr Hudson, Dr Jean Watson."

Mr Hudson greeted Jean warmly and ushered her inside. Sherlock looked on rather proudly as if he was showing he was a child showing Jean his best friend, or his mother.

Sherlock skipped up the stairs, sweeping around to wait for Jean. Jean had to slowly hobble up the stairs, her crutch annoying her again. Sherlock didn't make her feel awkward or annoying though. She felt comfortable. Sherlock had already dashed into the flat when she had walked into the flat.

It was surprisingly…clean.

"Who cleaned up?" Jean asked, poking her head into the kitchen. Sherlock was standing with her hands on her hips.

"I did." She smiled "Didn't want you to move into a pigsty. But I won't be cleaning often. Not unless Scotland Yard suddenly grow some brain cells."

Jean looked around, noting the experiments on the kitchen table, the skull on the mantelpiece, and the letters held down with a stiletto. Yes, life with this woman would be anything but boring.

"It's a skull." Jean gestured with her crutch.

"Friend of mine." Sherlock replied "Well, I say 'friend'."

Mr Hudson was standing in the doorway "What d'you think then Doctor Watson?" Sherlock walked towards her, taking off his coat and scarf and laying them on the chair. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Well, of course we'll be needing two?" Jean asked, slightly perplexed. She wasn't sure what Mrs Hudson was implying but she thought she could see Sherlock wince out of the corner of her eye.

"Oh don't worry dear!" Mr Hudson says, backtracking. "There's all sorts round here, Mr Turner next door's got _married ones_." He finishes the end of that sentence in a whisper.

Sherlock throws herself (gracefully) onto the sofa, closing her eyes and massaging her temples. Mr Hudson politely shows himself out.

"I'll just…um…look around…" Jean says, Sherlock replies with a noncommittal noise which Jean translates to _suit yourself_. She decides to go and look at the bathroom, she spies it through the (slightly cluttered) kitchen.

She looks in the bathroom, it's nice. A bath with a shower attachment, a loo, a sink with a medicine cabinet above it. Her curiosity gets the better of her and she looks on the window sill, glancing at Sherlock's things just out of their toilet bag.

There's a couple of eyeliners, one indigo and one black. Jean can't help but think what Sherlock would look like with them on. There's also a black mascara and some moon-white foundation and, to Jean's amusement, a red lipstick. Although, most of this makeup is hardly used. There's few pieces of jewellery in little boxes. A necklace made of onyx, a pair of plain earrings. It's as if Sherlock has this not because she wants it but because that's what normal people do. There's also a bracelet with an engraving on it:

_All my love – Mother_

Jean hastily puts it away, feeling it's too sentimental to go looking through. She shakes herself, mentally chastising herself for looking through her new flatmates things. She comes up with the excuse that she wants to know this person isn't a complete physco, although she knows that's not really the reason she's looking through her things. She limps back to the sitting room, where, it appears, Sherlock has fallen asleep.

Jean examines her face for a moment, noting the beautiful shadows her eyelashes project onto her beautiful cheekbones. She sighs quietly.

Surely a look in Sherlock's room couldn't hurt?

Just to check for razorblades and chemicals?

And…other things…

Jean musters up the courage and limps back through the kitchen into the corridor that has the doors for the bathroom and Sherlock's room. She pauses, shifting her weight anxiously. Then, with a small nod, she goes in.


	4. Sherlock's Room

Jean has gone into Sherlock's room. It's clinically clean. This kind of depresses Jean, there's no sign of activity or life or anything homely. Jean knows she's only used this room for a night or so, but she's not put any posters or photos up. She walks over to the wardrobe openly it slowly. There's a full length mirror inside the door and some shoes lined up inside. Two black high heels, one stiletto, one more modest. One pair of black Converses. A more worn happy looking pair of vintage-ish black Victorian shoes, the look like they're probably for men. There's a forest of plain black trousers and a couple of (unworn) skirts.

Right at the back there was a couple of exquisite beautiful ball gowns. Jean thumbed the black silk on one between her fingers. Even though she was slightly tomboy-ish it was a dress she'd dream, and possibly, die to wear. It had a sweetheart neckline and ruffles of black scrunchy material formed the bodice. It flew out into a large skirt made of shiny black material that would swim around the wearer when they walked. It still had a price tag enclosed by Jean didn't want to look at that, might make her faint.

She was perplexed, this dress was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen in her life and, although it didn't look there was plentiful occasions to wear it, it seemed untouched. Jean played with the ribbon securing the bodice at the back in a corset. A card fell out

_Sherlock,_

_Dress for these things correctly for once, you know it would upset Mummy. Please don't turn up like last year._

_Myra_

Jean was confused for a moment, who was Myra? A girlfriend? A best friend? Maybe a relative judging by the use of 'Mummy' instead of 'your mother'. Jean shook off the guessing and tucked the card back in place.

There was another dress, this time in purple. Jean didn't look at it, not wanting to cause any more envy than strictly necessary. She closed the wardrobe door sighing at her reflection in the mirror. She couldn't help comparing herself to Sherlock.

Sherlock.

She had beautiful eyes, they seemed to hesitate between green and grey but inevitably settle on blue. Many would describe them as piercing, but Jean would say they were more…searching. Looking for something, trying to find it hopelessly, as if they didn't even know themselves what they were looking for. She had lashes that models would kill for, but she acted like she didn't even know she had them. _Oh these metre long lashes? I was born with them, not a big deal_.

Her hair was tousled. Messy. It could've been tamed into a more tame shape but Sherlock didn't seem to care. It was deep brown, almost black and curly, but in a restrained way. Jean could imagine if she had it, she'd eternally twirl it round her finger. A nervous, bored habit.

Jean considered her flatmate more. She dressed herself well, sticking to a colour code of purple, black, white and the occasional blue. Again, as with every aspect of her look, there seemed room for improvement. If she dressed herself well it would've been by accident, not being someone into make-up or fashion. She seemed the kind of person that, if allowed, would just wander around in her duvet.

She wandered over to the bookshelves _Advanced Chemistry Volume One, Advanced Chemistry Volume Two, Advanced Chemistry Volume Three, (_and so on up to _Volume Twenty_) Jean read on _Crime and Punishment, Soils Across Britain, A Study of Natural Human Body Language. _That was just the first shelf. There was so many books on different topics. They seemed to comprise of violin music, studies on soils, chemistry, body language, psychology and crime, some literature, some notebooks (which Jean didn't dare touch) and a couple of (extremely worn) books on pirates including, to Jean's amusmant, _Treasure Island_.

There's also a dressing table facing the bed, but there's nothing in it and Jean doesn't want to raid the drawers.

She (forces) herself out the room, and back down through the corridor and into the living room. She's about to pick up her jacket and maybe leave a note to thank Sherlock when

"Did you like my room then?" Sherlock says, eyes still closed, same sleeping position.

"Like…your…" _Oh God_ Jean thinks _she knows_!

"I noticed you took it upon yourself to look through my things." Sherlock opens one eye lazily, peering up at Jean.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry but-"

"Are you… apologising?" Sherlock seems taken aback

"Well…yes…but-"

"Don't apologise." Sherlock rules "Apologising boring."

"But-"

"Look, I'm not angry. I'm interested. What did you manage to figure out?"

"Figure-"

"Yes, figure out. Work out. About me." Jean still looks puzzled and Sherlock rolls her eyes. "From looking through my (few) possessions what did you figure out about my personality. My character. My habits. My secrets. My joie de vivre." Sherlock gestures madly in the air with her hands.

"I must interject I don't normally go through people's things to find out their secrets."

"Don't you?" Sherlock asks, taking her turn as the puzzled one. "I do." Jean is about to say something about this when Sherlock speaks again. "So, make haste." Jean looks confused again. "Tell me what you figured out about me."

Jean coughs, then clears her face she laughs. Then she realises Sherlock is staring at her expectantly.

"Oh, you're…you're serious?"

"Yes. Why would I joke about something like that?" Jean opens her mouth. "Don't tell me, I don't really care. It was a hypothetical question. Now just hurry up and _go_."

"Right…well…you have make-up in the bathroom, but you haven't used it, so I'm guessing it was a gift."

"Good. Continue."

"In your wardrobe." Jean splutters "There's clothes."

"Really Jean? Well we better alert the police, someone's put clothes in my wardrobe."

"But," Jean interrupts "The skirts are hardly worn, you prefer trousers." she doesn't dare mention the possibly triple-zero price dresses.

"Interesting." Sherlock says getting up from the sofa. She turns around to see Jean pulling a I-did-good? face. He can't help but smirk at it.

"Sherlock there's someone here to see you." Mr Hudson comes in smiling at them. She opens the door further and in walks Detective Inspector Lestrade.

**I wanted to thank everybody who read/subscribed/shared/reviewed this. I am eternally grateful.**

**I was reading it back and I noticed I mixed up pronouns pretty badly. I can't day sorry enough, I hope nobody got confused.**

**Sherlock Holmes = Sherlock Holmes**

**Jean Watson = John Watson**

**Michelle Stamford = Mike Stamford**

**Manny Hooper = Molly Hooper**

**Mr Hudson = Mrs Hudson**

**If you ever get confused, just remember every character should be the opposite sex of who they are in the TV show.**


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